Molly Hooper, Girl Detective
by geekmama
Summary: "...there have recently been signs that their relationship has reached some tipping point..." - Another version of the story of what happens when that tipping point is reached.
1. North Star

_**~ North Star ~**_

* * *

Things are not going according to plan.

Admittedly, it's taken him years to understand Molly Hooper's true worth, and it's come to him only by degrees and over torturous paths. She counts, and for a long time her... _regard_ … has been a bright, fixed point in an often chaotic world. His North Star, as it were.

Or would be, if he were the poetic sort. Which he definitely is not.

Yet there have recently been signs that their relationship has reached some tipping point. Her schoolgirl crush is more or less a thing of the past, while his appreciation of her brilliant, slender self has increased to an almost disconcerting degree (though he fancies he's hidden it well enough from everyone, including her).

He studies her now, sitting across from him at the table for two they occupy in the hospital's busy coffee shop. She's the same Molly, with her cheery jumper and pristine lab coat; her hair (shampooed that morning, he can smell the faint scent of orange blossoms and vanilla) pulled back in the ponytail that makes her look so much younger than her thirty-four years. There is the usual telltale color high on her cheeks, too, and agitation in the movements of her fingers as she warms them around her mug of tea (milk, one sugar). Yet there's also a stubborn tilt to her chin, and though her big brown eyes still gaze adoringly (he did wear the aubergine shirt), there's no shyness in them today. On the contrary, there is a disconcerting amusement in their depths.

"Molly, I'm not joking," he says, a little sharply. "The situation is dangerous, even by Mary's standards, and it would be ridiculous for _you_ to get involved when you've no experience or skill in that direction." The amusement is fading fast and he discerns he may have said something to annoy her. He lets a rueful smile touch his lips, and gently adds, "You are so important to me, and to so many. Molly, I just want you to be safe."

She frowns, and tries to read him for a long moment, then suddenly gives it up with an exasperated chuckle. "Oh, Sherlock, what a piece of work you are."

He chuckles, too, and runs his hand through his hair (she likes it when he does that). "I know I'm mucking this up."

"No. You're… you're right. There _is_ some risk involved."

"A great deal of risk. I don't have all the details yet, but… you won't go?"

She sighs. "I'll call Mary when I get off. All right?"

"Good." This has been far easier than he'd feared it would be, and he gives her an approving smile. "Shall I walk you back to the morgue? I've an appointment in half an hour, but I can at least do that."

"Yes, that would be nice," she says, rising.

A few minutes later, she's disappearing into her natural habitat and Sherlock's congratulating himself on a successful intervention. It's not really much of a challenge dealing with someone that sweet and biddable, of course. He knew she'd listen to reason.

 _Molly Hooper, Girl Detective._

He gives a small snort of laughter at the absurdity of it, derisive, but… fond . Yes, actually. _Quite_ fond.


	2. Stakeout Interrupted

_**~ Stakeout Interrupted ~**_

The moon's barely a sliver, the night moderately cold, but her insides turn to ice in the blackness as she's jerked back against a large and very solid body, her instinctive yelp stifled by a firm hand over her mouth. She's just about to begin squealing and struggling maniacally when an angry, very familiar voice hisses in her ear,"What the _devil_ do you think you're doing?"

Her relief is immediate, and evident, her wrath instantaneous. As he releases her she whips around to confront him, but he grips her shoulders hard and actually gives her a shake. Livid, she digs the heel of her boot into his expensively shod toes. An inelegant expletive escapes him and his fingers tighten painfully. "Let _go!_ " she spits in a furious whisper. "What the devil do you think _you're_ doing?"

"I told you, the risks-"

"I know the risks, but it's Mary's friend! We have to help!"

" _You_ don't! Mary can handle her own affairs."

"She _asked_ me."

His eyes narrow. "I'll speak to her later. As for you…"

"As for me _what?_ " she snaps.

He seems to be gritting his teeth, and then suddenly he's roughly pulling her close and kissing her, for a long, long instant. She's gasping in surprise as he releases her, and she hears him mutter fiercely, "Either that, or a slipper to your bare backside. Possibly both."

She stiffens and bites back a shocked, outraged, (delighted) chuckle. "Oh, _really?_ "

" _Indeed_. But now, since we're already here, tell me what you've observed so far, Miss Hooper."

"You… you mean you're staying?"

"Apparently."

She can't help it. She pulls him down for another kiss, her smile beneath his lips proving infectious, then firmly grasps the sleeve of his Belstaff and launches into a detailed recital of the pertinent facts.

~.~


	3. Reversal

_**~ Reversal ~**_

* * *

"I should _arrest_ the both of you!" Lestrade snapped. "Obstruction of justice. Interfering with an official police investigation. Putting valuable lives at risk, not least of which would be _your own_." He glared at them for a long moment before continuing, "And I bloody well would do, save for two circumstances. One, by some miracle it all worked out. Perpetrators apprehended. Evidence secured. No injuries save that grazed arm of yours." His eyes narrowed. "I expect you know how fortunate you are, Dr. Hooper."

Molly flushed.

"Two" Lestrade went on,"I'm pretty sure I can rely on my mates, here, to take whatever steps seem appropriate to discourage the two of you engaging in further _mischief_ \- if I didn't know you as well as I do, I'd call it criminal misconduct, but I'll take it as given that you originally had good intentions, however unsound. Gentlemen, am I correct?"

And Lestrade peered at John and Sherlock in turn.

John gave a mirthless chuckle and took Mary's hand in a firm grasp, though, tellingly, did not reply.

Sherlock, however, eyed his errant pathologist and said coldly, "Quite."

Molly held herself well, but her flush deepened, and she was seen to swallow hard.

Sherlock's lip twitched against a grim smile. She was recalling his words, spoken in anger when he'd first caught up with her earlier in the evening - _...a slipper to your bare backside… -_ though admittedly he'd kissed her soundly before uttering them, and threatened her with more kisses, too. He wouldn't, of course - well, not the slipper. Playful brutality might be a satisfying, even enjoyable form of retribution (from his point of view), but she'd been injured, however minor the hurt, so it was, in this instance out of the question.

However, she didn't have to know that just yet. His chequered past had shown him that anticipation could be quite as tortuous in its way as an event one dreaded, and considering the anxiety and trouble he'd been put to on her behalf this evening… well, keeping her on tenterhooks for a while seemed entirely suited to the occasion.

"Right, then," Lestrade said, a bit more mildly. "You can all go. Good work calling us in when you did, Sherlock, might have gone far worse for everyone if we hadn't discovered what was afoot, so to speak. And Molls, watch that arm, you don't want any complications."

"I'll take care of her," Sherlock drawled, and had the satisfaction of feeling Molly tense as he set his hand possessively at the small of her back.

 **o-o-o**

It was after midnight and starting to drizzle as they waited for the cab to arrive.

Mary, after a glance at Sherlock, said to Molly, "I'm sorry I got you involved, love. Thank God you weren't more seriously injured. I didn't expect them to be armed, or that they were already under police investigation."

John said, with an edge to his tone, "A bit of a cock-up all around, it seems. But we can discuss that at home."

Mary sighed. "Must we?"

"Oh, I think so," John said, firmly. "Molly, come round to the surgery tomorrow so I can see how the arm's doing."

"I'll bring her," Sherlock said.

Molly cleared her throat a bit and finally spoke, her voice only a bit unsteady. "Thank you for dressing it so neatly, John. I'm sure it'll be fine." She gave him a strained smile.

John said, "Scarring should be minimal. Take something for the pain, if it's too bothersome, so you can get some sleep. You've got meds at home?"

"Yes, I think so."

John nodded. "Right, then. Here's our cab."

"You and Mary take this one," Sherlock told him.

Molly looked up at him quickly, frowning - her flat was only a few blocks from the Watsons' home - but he ignored her and she remained silent.

Mary gave her a last apologetic smile, and climbed into the cab, followed by John after he'd given the driver the direction.

The rain drizzled a bit harder as the Watsons drove away.

Molly said, "You're taking me home?"

"To Baker Street," Sherlock replied.

"But…" Molly tried to laugh and it came out an odd choke. She tried to tug her hand from his. "Sherlock…"

He looked down at her.

She took a deep breath. "I'm _sorry_. I… I should have listened to you, I know, but-"

"You preferred not to and nearly got yourself killed as a result."

She said, angrily, but with a note of desperation, " _You_ put yourself in dangerous situations all the time!"

"Yes. I have a great deal of experience and training, too, both of which inform my judgement and my ability to come off unharmed. _You,_ on the other hand, have neither the background nor the skills even of an _amateur_ , much less a black ops agent - though even Mary's skills seem to have been lacking in this case."

"It… it wasn't supposed to be like that!"

"And yet it was! Exactly as I predicted."

She fumed. "I've told you I'm sorry! What more do you…" Her voice trailed off.

He raised a brow as another cab pulled up to the curb to pick them up and said to her, "I believe I made my thoughts on the matter quite clear earlier this evening." He released her hand, opened the cab door, and gestured to her to get in: something of a challenge. "Shall we go?"

 **o-o-o**

They were halfway to Baker Street before he realized she was weeping. He would have noticed sooner,, but she was sitting as far from him as she could, at the opposite edge of the seat , and facing away, looking (apparently blindly) out the window. She made no sound, but she began to reach up occasionally, using one finger to swipe away a tear. Then another. And another.

Abandoning the game, he groused, "Oh, bloody hell, you little coward, are you blubbing already?" He caught her and pulled her toward him.

"I'm not blubbing! And don't touch me!" she said, her voice breaking.

"Don't be ridiculous." He slipped his arms about and under her and drew her close, almost onto his lap.

"I'm not! And I'm n-not a coward!" she went on, tears streaming now. "I'm just tired, and my arm hurts, and… and I think you're a _beast_ for even _thinking_ of… of beating me!" And she gave it up and set her cheek against his shoulder, snuffling into his coat. "There are tissues in my bag," she added, morosely.

He found them for her, and pressed the packet into her hand. As she dabbed at her tears, he said, blandly, "Having one's backside well smacked with a slipper hardly constitutes a beating, Miss Hooper."

"Of course It does," she insisted. She sat up and defiantly blew her nose, and when she was finished she at last looked him straight in the eye. But her momentary bravado faded. "But you know too much about that, I suppose. No wonder it seems amusing."

He winced at that, disliking the reminder of his more difficult misadventures, but managed to say lightly enough, "Well, it does, though I have to admit that I know nothing of slippers."

She reached up and lay a caressing hand against his cheek.

And now he was scowling. "I'm no hero, Molly."

"Nonsense. Who saved me from being shot tonight?"

"Well, I didn't save your skin entirely, did I?" He ran the backs of his fingers very gently over her shoulder, where John's neat bandage lay under her coat.

"Oh, Sherlock, you're such an idiot," she whispered unsteadily, and kissed him.

They remembered where they were, presently, and Molly settled beside him, quiet for the rest of the ride. They held hands, and she leaned a bit against his shoulder, but were otherwise circumspect.

The cab pulled up in front of 221B.

The rain had stopped.

 **o-o-o**

Later, though not really so very long after, there were more kisses, loving, seductive, passionate, and finally desperate, almost punishing ones, kisses that muffled her cries and incoherent babbling (she seemed to be confusing his name with God's as she came apart beneath him), and stopped the sound of his own voice, too, as he reached the point when he must either allow the delicious agony to consume him or die. He, too, cried out at the last, something he'd never done before, but she held him, small and strong and infinitely tender, and the tilt of her exquisite hips, the touch of firm, knowing hands wrang a second cry from him. It was too much. Too much.

Yet never, never enough, he thought, as they both lay there, gasping and trembling in the aftermath.

There seemed to be tears on her cheeks again (he wondered vaguely if some of them were his own), and her name was on his lips like a whispered prayer.

 **o-o-o**

He woke to the distant sound of the toilet flushing, and the faint chirping of birds outside, voicing their enthusiasm in the dawn of a new morning. Well, it was spring, and all beings twitterpated.

Had he made up that word?

There was a padding of bare feet and he cracked open one eye to see Molly coming through the door, face washed, hair brushed, and clad only in his aubergine shirt. He noted that, where Janine had filled out his shirts (albeit quite attractively), the same size hung loosely on his pathologist. Yet the curve of her breasts was deliciously evident and, since she'd only done up a couple of the middle buttons, there was a tantalizing glimpse of pert, copper colored curls below as she walked toward him.

Copper. He hadn't noticed that last night. Further investigation was called for…

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," she said, a smirk on her lips, eyes alight. He moved over a trifle and she sat down on the bed next to him.

"Good morning, Dr. Hooper," he replied, reaching up to undo the offending buttons. "You're looking quite pleased with yourself, considering the ups and downs of last night's adventure. How's the arm this morning?"

She winced a bit. "Sore. But it didn't keep me awake."

"The distraction was sufficient?" The buttons undone, he slipped a hand beneath the fabric to caress one firm, rounded breast, brushing his thumb over the intriguing coral tip.

She half closed her eyes, giving a little sigh of pleasure, but presently caught his hand and drew it away. "I want to ask you something first!" She kissed his fingers, and laid them against her cheek for a moment, then, retaining hold of his hand, she straightened and said, "I want you to teach me."

"All right," he said, a little warily. "What?"

"You told me last night that I hadn't the background or skills to do the sort of work you do, but I could learn, couldn't I? Will you teach me?"

His brows rose. "You liked it?"

"Of course I liked it! Well… most of it. I enjoyed going out with you that other time, too. After you came back, when John was still… well, maybe I could go out with you again. If you teach me. To stay safe, you know. And observe effectively."

He almost smiled, but there was a vast potential for worry and distraction in this suggestion. Sentiment was indeed the grit on the lens. But it was too late to repine. "Very well. But you'll have to do what I say without exception. I hope last night at least reminded you that I usually do know what I'm talking about."

She looked down her nose at him. "Agreed. But there are to be no more threats of slippers. I find that singularly unappealing, Mr. Holmes."

"Do you indeed, Dr. Hooper?" he said, reaching round to pinch the delectable flesh in question. She yelped and started forward, and in a trice he had her on her back beneath him, his hands at her wrists, pressing them into the pillow, a frame for that sweet, startled face. "An unfortunate aversion," he said. "I cannot and will not agree to a demand couched in those terms. But perhaps - just _perhaps_ \- if you ask _very_ nicely…"


	4. Several Weeks Later

_**~ Several Weeks Later ~**_

* * *

"Sherlock! You need to get up. Greg says he's been texting you this last half hour, there's a case!"

Molly sounded far too chipper, and when she threw back the drapes to let in blinding sunshine, it was more than he could bear.

"Who the devil is Greg, and why didn't I realize you were a _morning person_ before accepting you as my acolyte-slash-paramour," he groaned. "I _always_ miss something."

And now she was clambering onto the bed to perch on her knees beside him. "It's past ten o'clock, and since when do you sleep when _Lestrade_ has an interesting case for you?"

"Got the first text last night, It's a three, a four at most, already solved it, it's _BORING._ Now close the drapes before you go, there's a good girl."

"It has to be at least an eight! They suspect the victim may have had some severe, and perhaps pre-meditated, allergic reaction to some flowers - there were a number of large vases of them in the flat, and some of the blooms are quite rare and unusual, according to Anderson. Greg's had the body transported to Bart's so I can do the post-mortem, and this is the perfect opportunity for you to teach me your method of analysing pollens and other botanical substances. I've already told Mike we'll need the lab. We have to go to the flat, to see what's there and take samples!"

Having managed to open his eyes a bit during this unconscionably enthusiastic recital, he now glared at her. " _Anderson?_ ".

"I've made you coffee," she said, making an abysmal attempt to look sympathetic. Her underlying amusement was all too evident.

But he could smell the coffee, actually. And she did make it well, far better than John had ever managed.

He sighed. "My life was so much more restful when you were merely tongue-tied and mooning over me."

She pursed her lips against a grin, leaned over and, instead of the expected kiss, drawled one (admittedly appropriate) word: " _Booooring!_ "


	5. Retreat

_**~ Retreat ~**_

* * *

So. It wasn't a game anymore.

Molly swallowed hard, looking at the results of the over-the-counter pregnancy test that she'd just used to confirm what she had suspected for the last week.

 _Molly Hooper, Girl Detective_ was going to have Sherlock Holmes' baby.

She gave a rather helpless laugh, sinking down from where she was perched on the edge of the tub to sit, her back against the side, her bottom on the tiles of the floor. It was cold, but the hard surfaces steadied her, which was all to the good. She had to think.

Fortunately, she had time and to spare in which to do so. Sherlock was gone out of town on a case, taking John with him since Molly had been scheduled to work the night shift all week, ending with a double shift to cover for Mike Stamford. Mike's wedding anniversary was on Friday, and he and his wife were off to a bed and breakfast in the Cotswolds for the weekend, just the two of them, leaving their children with Mike's parents.

What a delightfully ordinary celebration. What bliss to be surrounded by such love, to take it as a matter of course, as one's due. To know that words like caring, devotion, and commitment were the bones of one's life, the air one breathed.

Molly heaved a great sigh, and tears stung her eyes as she brushed her hair back with a trembling hand. These last few months had been an idyll, better than one of those romance novels she used to read. She hadn't had time for novel-reading lately, not when her days - and _nights_ \- were taken up with satisfying work at Bart's, learning a new craft - Sherlock had taken her ambition seriously and was as exacting a teacher as she could have wished - and discovering what heaven an _affaire_ with the consulting detective could be. But unlike those novels, there would be no happy ending for her. At least…

She placed one hand over the warm flesh that housed the child. _Their_ child. And she could not help smiling a little.

The smile faded, though, when she thought of telling Sherlock. _She_ might believe he'd make a good father, but she doubted if he'd ever so much as considered himself in such a role in his life, and she was much afraid he would be furious at the situation. She shuddered. She'd seen him in a strop any number of times, but this…

He didn't have to know right away, of course. Though he would, wouldn't he? His skills in deduction were effective in far more than merely crime solving, and coupled with his recently acquired very intimate knowledge of her…

Panic welled up. But no! She took a deep breath and bit her lip, drawing her knees up against her chest, protective, stable. Swallowing hard, she firmly shoved fear aside, along with grief for that _idyll_ \- insubstantial, unsustainable.

She would worry about Sherlock later - perhaps much later. She had leave time built up, and her godmother in St. Ives had been asking her to visit for ages. She would go, Saturday morning, after her double shift. She'd tell Mrs. Hudson, text Mike, and write a note for Sherlock: She would visit an ailing friend, one with whom she must keep faith, a friend who needed peace and quiet, and some tender care.

It was, after all, little more than the truth.


	6. Serious

_**~ Serious ~**_

* * *

John trotted quickly across the street where Sherlock stood waiting on the pavement, under the wide awning of a jewelry shop, well out of the rain, though not watching for his friend, oh no. Instead, his Belstaffed back was presented to John, and the consulting detective seemed to be examining the display in the shop window.

"Got the papers," John said, happily, as he, too, reached the shelter of the awning. He flipped back the hood of his all-weather coat, glad that Mary had made him bring it along. The coat was an odd color, sort of a weird, burnt-orange that Sherlock never seemed to tire of reviling, but it kept John and the evidence dry, that's what mattered. But Sherlock was still window shopping. "In the market for a ring?" John asked, teasingly.

Sherlock finally turned to him. "Maybe. Did you get the diary? _And_ the ledger?"

"Right in here," John said, patting the coat's large zippered pocket.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "At least that hideous piece of clothing is good for something."

"It's more effective than your bloody Belstaff in this sort of weather," John retorted. "But what do you mean, maybe?" He tried not to sound too eager, but he knew he was fairly beaming as he said, "Are you and Molly… er, _serious?_ "

An odd expression passed over Sherlock's face, and for a moment he didn't speak. But then, "You mustn't say anything."

Puzzled, John nodded. "All right. Even to Mary?"

"Well… _she'll_ know soon enough anyway. Molly's pregnant."

John gaped.

Sherlock said, dryly, "Close your mouth, John, there are no flies to catch in this sort of weather."

John's gape turned to an astonished laugh. "My God, no wonder you've been so quiet this trip."

"Have I?" Sherlock mused, apparently thinking back. "Well, it's a lot to take in. And I don't believe even Molly knows, yet."

"Really? She's... said nothing? Are _you_ sure?"

Sherlock gave a wry smile. "Pretty sure. The signs are there."

"Mmm." Sherlock's accurate reading of Mary's "signs" at the wedding had been the bombshell of the event. An ultimately happy bombshell - little Grace was the light of their lives. But still… "So. Time to get serious, then."

Sherlock looked uncertain, and a little troubled - a very strange look, for him. "I understand," he said, diffidently, "that many couples come to… marriage… and parenthood… in this way."

John laughed again. "They do. But few have prospects as excellent as yours and Molly's."

Sherlock's troubled look eased. "Do you really believe that?"

"I do," said John, putting all the sincerity he could summon into the words.

Sherlock nodded. "I've been clean for two years, now. And these last six months with her… well… she loves me. It's still difficult to fathom, sometimes."

"I expect so. And you love her." It was a statement, not a question, but John waited a little anxiously for Sherlock's reply.

His friend did not disappoint. "I believe so." Some color came into the pale cheeks, and he added, diffidently, "As I understand the concept, at least."

John rolled his eyes a bit. "A truly Holmesian answer."

Sherlock raised a brow.

"Never mind," said John. "So are there any rings you fancy, here?" He looked in the window. "Do you know what sort of stones she likes?"

"She doesn't wear much jewelry, and definitely not when she's working at Bart's."

"Something simple, then, maybe with diamonds. They do go with everything."

"Yes," Sherlock said, though he sounded a bit doubtful.

John said, cheerily, "We've got a few minutes before we have to go meet with that solicitor. Want to go in and have a look round?"

Sherlock hesitated, but finally said, "I suppose it wouldn't hurt."

John grinned. "Only a little - and mostly in the wallet. But I can hold your hand, if you like."

And now it was Sherlock's turn to give a roll of the eyes. "Thank you, John, but I believe I can bear up without resorting to any unseemly displays," he said, very wry, and pushed open the shop door with a jangle of bells.


	7. Silence

_**~ Silence ~**_

* * *

The Diogenes Club might have been considered by some to possess an atmosphere both restful and convenient, but Sherlock was not among their number. He was not a member himself, and never would be if he had any say in the matter. He'd spent enough time in the place under his brother's aegis, and for the most part they'd been uncomfortable times, indeed. Either Mycroft was taking him to task for some peccadillo or other, or the British Government was asking him to assist in some harrowing, if not life threatening, scheme. Then there was the time he'd been secreted there on his return from the dead, which might have been mildly pleasant if he hadn't been quite so sore from his sojourn in that Serbian jail.

Bloody Mycroft and his _wading in_.

No, Sherlock wasn't fond of his brother's club, and the fact that he had far better things to do than to wait on said brother was putting him in an even worse humor than usual. And yet… and yet…

"Ah, brother mine, so good to see you," Mycroft said, as ironically as usual, when Sherlock was permitted entrance to the inner sanctum, where one could at least express oneself out loud.

Sherlock replied, with a distinct edge, "Mycroft, this had better be important because I have business to attend to."

"I'm well aware. You have been moving heaven and earth for the last five days in an effort to find Dr. Hooper, have you not? And yet in a most subtle and secretive manner. What are we to infer from this? You haven't had a falling out, have you? Or is that still in the planning stages?"

Sherlock set his teeth. "How did you- no, why am I surprised?"

"Certainly you shouldn't be. Your surveillance level may have dropped, but it still exists. _As does Dr. Hooper's_."

Sherlock stared. "Bloody hell! You know where she is, don't you?"

Mycroft studied his perfectly manicured nails. "I admit we had a difficult time keeping track of her. She left London last Saturday, directly after working a double shift at St. Bart's, and as she didn't take her mobile phone with her we had some difficulty following her movements. We managed it in the end, however, and I believe we have discovered, too, why she took such a step."

"The sick friend was a lie," Sherlock said, harshly. Miserably.

Mycroft's brow arched, and he studied Sherlock for a long moment. "It was," he said slowly, "But I believe the conclusion _you_ have come to is equally erroneous."

Relief surged through Sherlock so suddenly that he grabbed the back of a chair for support.

Mycroft glared at him. "Sit down, Sherlock, before you fall down. These histrionics are unseemly and unnecessary."

Sherlock did sit down, but he said, wryly, "I believe histrionics implies impassioned speech."

"Well, dramatic pantomime, then," Mycroft shrugged. "In any case, Dr. Hooper and the child are both safe."

Sherlock sighed. "I- I thought-"

"I know what you thought, though why you would imagine she would do away with your child is quite beyond me. For God's sake, the girl has loved you for years!"

"I know that," Sherlock said, tightly. "But…"

"But?" Mycroft prompted, trying to be patient.

"Why didn't she tell me? If she knew." Sherlock knew he sounded unacceptably distraught, but he couldn't seem to help it.

But Mycroft only said, "Have you ever in the last six months indicated to her that you were interested in a more permanent arrangement?" When Sherlock said nothing, Mycroft went on, rather gently. "It may very well be that she feared your reaction to such a life-altering revelation."

Sherlock frowned. "Molly's not afraid of me! It's been years since she's… since I've…"

"Dr. Hooper is under a great deal of stress, Sherlock. I expect it's merely that her courage failed her for a time. You may have been living _love's young dream_ for the last six months, but she knows what kind of man you are. You have a temper. You say cutting things. And for all her newfound spirit, she's still aware that you can hurt her."

"But… I bought her a ring." Sherlock's voice trailed off, miserably.

Mycroft smiled a bit at that. "Did you? What about grand-mère's ring? I believe Mummy would want you to consider it, at least." And he opened a drawer, took out a small velvet-covered box, and set it on the desk.

Sherlock, with an uncertain scowl, took up the box and opened it. Small but perfect diamonds winked up at him from the old fashioned setting.

Exactly what Molly would like, he'd lay money on it.

He closed the box and looked up at Mycroft. "You interfering bastard. Did you tell them about the child?"

"Of course not," Mycroft said, smoothly. "I merely told them your relationship with Dr. Hooper was growing more serious, and that it might be a good time to have the ring readied, just in case. I had it cleaned, by the way."

Sherlock nodded. "Very well. Where is she?"

"What do you plan to do?"

It was on the tip of Sherlock's tongue to tell Mycroft to go to hell, that it was none of his business. But it _was_ his business, of course, at least to some extent. Molly Hooper had been a part of their lives for a good many years now, and had risked much on their behalf. Sherlock knew Mycroft held her in esteem, which was saying a great deal for one who viewed the majority of humanity as so many "goldfish". A casual _affaire_ was one thing, but this… One married a spouse, true, but one married into a _family,_ as well.

So Sherlock said, instead, "I'm going to ask her to marry me, of course. Sentiment… but it seems it can't be denied."

Mycroft smiled. "Indeed. And just to clarify, my feelings on that subject may have altered somewhat over the years. But Sherlock: be careful."

Sherlock nodded, swiftly considering the possible outcomes of his reunion with Molly and finding that he was both anxious and excited at the prospect. "It's my intention, certainly. Now, once again, brother mine: where is she?"


	8. Rapproachement

**_~ Rapprochement ~_**

* * *

Though St. Ives was a pretty little seaside resort, the property of Mrs. Helen Cecilia Byrd was set some way inland from the picturesque harbor and was of more substantial size than most. The house itself was moderate, a comfortable English cottage, built no more than a century before, grey stone trimmed in white, and meticulously maintained. There were white lace curtains in the windows, too, a brass knocker on the red-painted door, and a wisp of smoke rising in a leisurely manner from the chimney. The front garden was small and still replete with flowers, even this late in the season, but as Sherlock pulled up to the curb to park the car he'd "borrowed" from Mycroft, he caught a glimpse of a back garden that was both wide and deep. A very green and neatly mown lawn faded into a distant stand of trees, now touched with autumn color, and before these stood what appeared to be a number of beehives.

Eminently homey and comfortable. Just the sort of place Molly would love.

Well, too bad for her, Sherlock thought, grimly.

He got out of the car and, girding his loins (as it were), strode up the neat flagged path, mounted the steps, and knocked briskly on that cheery door. Instantly, the raucous yapping of a pack of diminutive dogs sounded from within, followed by the muffled clucking of an elderly woman, giving the little blighters a singularly ineffective scold as she approached. Sherlock winced as she opened the door, for the yapping increased to an excruciating level as the dogs - overfed miniature spaniels of some sort - raced out and surrounded him.

"Bloody hell," he could not help hissing, though this was certainly not the way to recommend himself to Molly's godmother.

Said godmother, a lady in her late seventies, with neatly coiffed grey hair, a flowered dress, pink cardigan, and a pinny, said apologetically. "Oh, I'm so sorry. _Pooh! Piglet!_ Stop that right now! _Fluffernut, get down!_ You'll be shedding all over the gentleman's trousers!"

The latter statement was soon seen to be no more than the truth, and by the time Mrs. Byrd had herded her charges back into the house, Sherlock had acquired a couple of paw prints as well, one of the wretched beasts having broken off to make a brief foray into the rain-soaked flowerbed before resuming its assault.

"I'm so very sorry," Mrs. Byrd said, again, as she closed the door on them. "They really are very good, once they get to know you."

"I'm sure they are," Sherlock said, attempting to smile without gritting his teeth. "Are you Mrs. Byrd? I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, I thought you might be." She gave Sherlock a look up and down, her eyes twinkling. "Molly has told me a great deal about you, you see."

 _Molly._ Sherlock suddenly found himself somewhat short of breath. "Is Molly here?"

"Oh, yes, she's in the back garden, spading a bit of my vegetable patch so we can plant the peas this afternoon. But… Mr. Holmes, are you quite well?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes. Fine."

"You look a bit pale, but perhaps it's the light, such a beautiful, sunny day, is it not? Molly was so happy the rain has stopped, and now with you here…" Mrs. Byrd looked a little conscious. "You… you _will_ be very good to her? She's been… a trifle anxious about… things."

Sherlock said nothing, but reached into his pocket, took out the small velvet box, and opened it for her.

Her reaction was all he could have wished. She gasped, and raised a face wreathed in smiles, her eyes glistening with sentimental tears. He could not refrain from smiling crookedly in return, and she sighed blissfully. "Oh, you are every bit as handsome as she told me!" Then, remembering herself, added, "Though handsome is as handsome does, as they say."

Sherlock's smile faded to a slight grimace.

But the little lady patted his arm comfortingly. "I'm sure you will behave just as you ought - from now on, at least. Now you go around the side of the house, there's a path, and I don't believe it's _too_ muddy. I'll just go in and ready some tea things, for… for after. To celebrate!" She gave a firm nod, another smile, and went back into the house, squeezing through the door while bestowing additional fond admonitions on her over-enthused greeting committee.

Sherlock, feeling (and, sadly, looking) somewhat worse for wear, re-pocketed the ring, made his way back down the steps, and headed around the side of the house, as instructed. Unfortunately, he found that the path was rather muddier than Mrs. Byrd had predicted, and his expensive shoes began to sink in goo at every step. Then, when he'd nearly reached the back corner of the house, he slipped and nearly fell, though ultimately he managed to stay on his feet.

He was shaken, though. And tired (he'd barely slept for days). Hungry, too - the mere mention of tea had made him suddenly peckish, probably not surprising since he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. And he was thoroughly disgusted with his appearance. Ordinarily he didn't mind a little dirt, at least not in the course of The Work, but this was different. He'd hoped to more or less sweep Molly off her feet with his devastating good looks and charm of manner in this important confrontation, and obviously he'd hoped in vain. (Not that she wouldn't see through such tricks, anyway; those days were long past.)

And yet, mere seconds later, finally emerging into the back garden and steadier ground, he knew that none of that mattered in the least.

She was standing in profile, twenty feet away, surveying a largish area of freshly spaded vegetable patch (and was such physical labor _wise_ in these circumstances?). She was dressed in jeans stained at the knees, a tatty old jumper of indeterminate color, mud-caked work boots, and filthy gardening gloves. Her hair was pulled back in its usual ponytail and she now reached up to wipe her forehead with the back of her wrist. Far cleaner than her gloved hands, it somehow left a smudge of dirt, anyway, and his lips twitched against a smile as he walked toward her.

And then she sensed him, turned fully toward him, and the spade dropped from her nerveless hand. "Sherlock!" She took one step, then remembered the gloves and halted, trying frantically to pull them off.

She'd only managed to remove one of them before he reached her, but he drew her roughly into his arms, heedless. For long moments they held each other, arms tight, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, his against her hair, bereft of words in their mutual relief.

Sherlock's mind went skittering back to a dark time, when he'd been "dead" and alone in a bleak area of Eastern Europe and the memory of her, the knowledge that he was in her thoughts - her prayers, pretty much saved his sanity. Sometimes she was the only unsullied thing he could remember in what seemed a mad world of mistrust and evil. She'd saved him yet again, so that he could finish the job he'd started, and he'd never told her. On his return she'd been engaged to Tom, and later, well... he hadn't really thought of it in a long time. Perhaps...

But then he felt her trembling, and a small sob escaped her. "Molly, are you weeping _again?_ "

She laughed through her tears, and pushed a little away. "No, not at all," she said, stubbornly, looking up at him, her eyes warm, the tears on her cheeks belying her words. "Sherlock, how did you find me?"

"Never mind that." He took out his handkerchief and handed it to her. "Molly, if you ever go off like this again, leaving a _lying note_ , and _without your phone_ …" He took a deep breath, willing the surge of anger away since it would hardly serve him at this particular moment. "Well, rest assured, the consequences will be dire."

"It _wasn't_ ' a lie!" she protested, though her mulish expression was riddled with guilt. "The sick friend was me. I needed some time, that's all. I… _oh_ …." She broke off, quickly blew her nose on an edge of the handkerchief, wiped her tears with the rest, then faced him squarely. "Sherlock-"

"I know. About the baby."

She stared. " _How?_ "

" _I knew before John and I left!"_ He ran a hand through his hair, trying for calm. _"_ It was obvious! The signs were there: fatigue, intermittent nausea, emotional instability, vaginal dryness, an increase in fullness and sensitivity of the breasts. And your period was late, of course." She was blushing quite furiously, so he added, "You, of all people, know that's what I do. Observation. Research. _Deduction._ "

She laughed, rather hysterically. "Wh-why didn't you tell me? Oh, my God! All this week… but I wasn't even sure myself until you were gone and I went out and bought one of those tests. And then… well, I couldn't imagine what you would say. Or no, actually I could. And did." She looked up at him, uncertain and rather ashamed.

 _Excellent._

Sherlock grabbed Molly's still gloved hand, efficiently pulled off the offending article and threw it down with some distaste, then turned her and hustled her along toward a rather pretty and comfortable looking garden bench sitting some few feet beyond the vegetable patch.

"Sherlock, wh-what are you doing?" she stammered by way of protest.

"Taking you over here to sit down, of course. And what the devil are _you_ doing, spading such a large patch of earth in your condition?"

"My _condition?_ I'm not _ill!_ "

"Nevertheless, are you quite certain that's advisable? Granted, the statistics for miscarriage drop to ten percent or less after the first three weeks, but allowances must be made for your age, and mine for that matter. Have you spoken to your doctor?"

"Why would I? You wretch, I'm perfectly fine! And we are neither of us _that_ ancient, Mr. Consulting Detective."

Having reached the bench, he now sat down upon it and pulled her onto his lap, saying, "Don't get smart with me, Miss Hooper. You're skating on very thin ice here."

"It's _Doctor_ Hooper," she said, and kissed him.

Rather forcefully, and at length.

Her arms about his neck, her hand slipping up to rifle through the curls at the back of his head.

All this, and the feel of her in his arms, slim and strong and vital under the dirty, inconvenient clothing, did much to smooth his temper.

After, she laid her head against his shoulder, clinging.

And yes, he was clinging, too, to tell the truth.

Eventually, she said, softly, "You don't mind, then?"

 _Oh, my God._ "Molly… I thought _you_ minded. When I saw the note you'd left, and couldn't find you anywhere. I thought…"

She sat up and looked at him with dawning horror.

Sherlock said, rather defensively, "That's what women… what people do. Isn't it? When it's an 'inconvenience', rather than a 'baby'?"

An expression of grief clouded her face. "Yes. But how could you think _I_ would do such a thing? When I've loved you for so long?"

He sighed. "That's what Mycroft said."

She stiffened. " _Mycroft?!_ "

"He's the one who told me where you'd gone, finally. Oh, don't look so surprised. You know what he is."

"Did he know why I'd come here?"

Sherlock laughed, rather mirthlessly. "He not only knew, he went to our parents' to fetch this for me." He drew the velvet-boxed ring from his pocket again and handed it to her. Astonished, she opened it, and he added, "It was my grandmother's. He had it cleaned and the mountings tightened. Probably sized, too: Grand-mère was rather larger than you, built on queenly lines, as the saying goes. I'd already bought you a ring a few days before, when John and I were still out on the case, John helped me pick it out. But this one… I thought perhaps you'd prefer it."

She looked up at him again. "Sherlock… are you asking me…"

"To marry. Me. Yes." He peered at her suspiciously. "You don't want me to go down on one knee or anything of that sort, do you?"

Her lips pursed against a smile.

"I mean, I can if you like," he went on, "though the grass is damnably wet. But my trousers are already ruined, as you must have noticed. Your godmother's wretched little dogs took care of that."

"Was that the noise I heard earlier?" She laughed: amused, relieved, joyful. "Oh, Sherlock, no. But I wish I could have seen!" And she kissed him again.

He smiled, too, under the kiss, then took the velvet box from her, ending it. "Give me your hand, Dr. Hooper." She did, and he slipped the ring on to sparkle in the sunlight. As expected, it fit perfectly. _Bloody Mycroft_ , he thought, but without much heat.

There were more kisses, a great deal of cuddling, soft words, more smiles: all the elements appropriate to such an occasion, and very enjoyable they were, too. But then, eventually, out of nowhere, Sherlock's stomach gave an empty twinge and he was reminded of Mrs. Byrd's preparations for tea. He cleared his throat, slightly, and said to _his fiance_ , "Shall we go in and tell your godmother?"

"Oh, yes!" said Molly, sitting up. "She'll be so happy. But Sherlock…"

"Hmm?"

"I can still be _Molly Hooper, Girl Detective_?"

"No!" he exclaimed, admittedly without thinking.

The mulish expression made a speedy reappearance. "Why not? You know how good I've been, following your instructions, and I've learned so much!"

The first of many compromises, no doubt. "Very well. But nothing over a four."

"That's absurd. Seven."

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Six, and that's final. And only when you're with me. Otherwise _nothing over a four!_ "

"Agreed," she said, then spoiled it by adding, "For now."

"Oh, bloody hell," he muttered, wondering suddenly what he'd gotten himself into.

But she kissed him again, and said, "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

He sighed. "I know. And I love you, too - God help me."

~.~


End file.
